


Slapdown

by spycandy



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Face Slapping, Gen, Head Injury, Jam Tarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She slaps him anyway, on general principle. And because it’s what they usually do.</p><p>He doesn't usually crumple to the ground at her feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slapdown

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: I'm re-watching past episodes and I just have a craving for something where Constance slaps Aramis hard for whatever reason, and either he slips and looses his balance and genuinely hurts himself, or he's been wounded and she's unaware of it until he collapses after she's slapped him. I'd like her to be OMG and then taking care of him. I'm looking for friendship between them, rather than romantic love. I just think they'd make good friends.

When she arrives at the garrison intent on agreeing a price for a new order of musketeer blue riding cloaks, she is preoccupied with ensuring that she isn’t about to run into d’Artagnan. The last she heard, the young man who has her heart was accompanying the king on a journey expected to last several days, but she could do without yet another fraught and awkward encounter.

However, the only one of the usual reprobates to be seen is Aramis, who is lounging on one of the benches, hands for once not busy cleaning or fixing equipment.

“Good afternoon Madame Bonacieux,” he addresses her, standing up and touching his hat. “Thass a ve’y nice dress you’re wearing.”

Is the man drunk? It’s barely past midday and he’s slurring his speech already. His glassy unfocused stare comes to rest on the neckline of her outfit.

“Is it supposed to do that? ‘s kind of wonky.” His hand traces a complicated shape in the air between them. She knows he’s not actually about to paw her breast - even three sheets to the wind Aramis wouldn't be that crass - but she slaps him anyway, on general principle. And because it’s what they usually do.

He doesn't usually crumple to the ground at her feet.

“O ha ha Aramis. Little Constance Bonacieux can really pack a punch. I can tell you’re faking. It isn’t funny.”

“No it bloody well isn't funny,” Porthos snarls, practically flinging her out of the way as he runs up. “What did you go and do that for?” He kneels beside his fallen comrade, pulling the unconscious man’s head onto his lap. Aramis’ face is utterly drained of colour, a crease of pain in the centre of his forehead. Oh God, he really isn’t faking. 

“He said… He was…” she flounders.

“Couldn’t you tell he was injured?” That’s Athos, who has appeared from nowhere. She would have sworn he wasn’t even in the yard a moment ago. “We brought in a gang of ruffians this morning, but not before one of them took a hefty cosh to the back of Aramis’ head.”

“Then what were you doing leaving him alone, you idiots!”

“We were reporting to the Captain! We didn’t expect anyone to turn up and smack him in the face!”

They’re shouting but she knows it’s more from fear than anger on both their parts. A blow to the head is always a dangerous business and slurred speech is a profoundly worrying sign in a sober man. 

“Stop yelling please, my head hurts.” The voice from the ground silences them instantly. Constance sees the relief wash over Athos’ features as Aramis accurately counts the fingers that Porthos is waving in his face. He still looks horribly pale though and clearly has to rely on a supporting arm as he struggles to his feet.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.

Athos is already back to glaring at her as if she were actually the villain with the cosh, but he finally relents.

“Have you anything that might help a headache? I know you ladies have scents and lotions for that kind of thing.”

She nods.

“Good, bring them to his rooms. We’ll meet you there.”

***

When she gets home, she finds there’s barely a dreg left in her small vial of lavender oil, so she grabs some coins and heads for the perfumier. It won’t be an easy expense to explain. She can hardly tell her husband that she knocked a musketeer out cold in full view of the garrison - he’d no doubt worry it would be bad for business. 

It’s worth it though. Even if she wasn’t the main cause of his injury, she hates to see any of those ridiculous boys hurt - and not just because it might so easily be d'Artagnan who is injured next time. They all put their lives on the line to save her.

As she passes the patisserie, she spies the perfect thing to assuage her guilt a little and to help overcome their annoyance at her.

***

“How is he?”

“Making no less sense than he usually does, so that’s promising,” says Porthos. “So long as no-one else decides to clobber him around the head today.”

“It’s not her fault. It’s not,” insists the man on the bed, giving her a gallant smile, entirely free of blame. He still looks pale and pained, but his eyes are focused and alight with intelligence. “A light breeze would probably have had me over at that point.”

“Well I brought you these by way of apology anyway,” she says, handing over the basket.

Porthos identifies the contents first and grins with a boyish delight that warms her heart.

“Hey! She’s apologising to me. They’re mine,” laughs Aramis, pulling out one of the small tarts, filled with glistening red jam and topped with a small pastry fleur de lys, for himself.

“Too late. All is forgiven Madame,” says Porthos around a mouthful of raspberry jam. Even Athos is smiling as he bites into the sweetness.

“Can you stay a while Madame?” asks Athos, once he has brushed away the crumbs. “We must return to duty and he probably shouldn’t be left alone.”

Aramis starts to mutter a protest, but it is silenced by insistent looks from his two friends.

“Very well,” she says as the door closes behind the other two musketeers. “What shall we talk about?”

“The latest Paris fashions perhaps,” says Aramis with a smirk. “This fetching new asymmetric neckline that I hear is all the rage - I think it’s growing on me.”

It takes all of her restraint not to slap him.


End file.
